Saving Chloe
by mythirdeye
Summary: Chloe and Lex. All fluff. PG-13 for swearing. All usual disclaimers apply. Reviews would be good too.
1. The Accident

CHLOE

It's 4:30 p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon, and it's freezing.

But that's hardly the highlight of my afternoon. Or maybe it _is_ the highlight of my afternoon, because of the absence of other highlights in my afternoon. Smallville has never ever experienced such a month-long draught, a veritable season of dullness. Which is all good and well if it means that no one's about to get injured through some freak of meteorite-affected nature, but when your life centers around the credibility and well-being of The Torch, no news means bad news.

I could hardly write about the freezing weather. There's no conspiracy around Mother Nature.

And anyway, I already wrote about the weather in last week's edition. That's right, I, Chloe Sullivan, dreamer of meteorite theories, has already scraped the bottom of the controversial barrel. Which just hardens my resolve to _not_ make this edition as pathetic as the last. 

Seems weird for a normal sixteen year old girl like myself to worry about the credibility of the Torch, which is a) free and b) with a principal on my case all the time about meteorite theories, already on its way to lost credibility. Yes, my life does center around this newspaper, very sadly so. It's like a man with a handicap – the loss of one sense heightens the sense of another. In my case, forcing myself to concentrate wholly on the paper makes me ignore those splinters I find gathering at the pit of my stomach that I call my Shattered Ego. All of which can be thanked to a very tall, unfortunately good-looking and unfortunately too great a person to hate for too long a time without any worthwhile reason, farm boy by the name of Clark Kent.

Which explains the reason why I'm so hung up on this paper and not worrying about normal sixteen-year old girl things. I managed to get myself sucked into the trivial matters of teenhood once, and it was a lousy vacation. Allow me to be a weird single nutcase again, thanks very much.

So when my usually dependable town has nothing growing in its swamps for the past month and I've been combing the edges of my mind trying to find a worthwhile topic, I find myself getting all despairing again over that Spring Formal That Never Was.

I have to find something to write about!

Lana has not been helping at all. I'm pretty sure that she guesses that I'm depressed about something, but her flying over to the table every five minutes with a beatific grin on her face and a thermos of coffee in one hand, asking breathily, "More coffee, Chloe?" has been killing me, to say the least. Don't get me wrong, I love the girl, honestly I do, but there's a very thin line between 'Caring' and 'Annoying' and Lana doesn't know how to spot that line yet.

I already had a saucer gripped in my hand to throw at Lana after she asked if I wanted more coffee for the hundredth time when Lex Luthor and another man walked in. I figure that remaining a patron at the Talon seems more worthwhile than getting into a saucer throwing fight with the assistant manager in front of the owner and hence getting banned from the place altogether (although I'll have to think really hard about that one).

Nevertheless, at the hundred and first time: "More coffee, Chloe?"

"_NO_!" I all but screamed.

Affronted, but still breathy, Lana says, "Oh. How about cake?"

"Lana, I don't need cake! I don't need coffee! Okay, maybe I do in about fifteen minutes, but I don't _right now_. You know what I need, Lana? A story! Give me a _story_!"

"Chloe, if you're looking for a story, I doubt that barricading yourself into a corner of the Talon is going to help you find it," Lana suggests.

I narrow my eyes at her. "Well, I've got to start _somewhere_."

And Lana, pretty or no pretty is still a nice little town girl right down to her pretty bones, says brightly, "You can start with cake. Or a muffin."

Hmmm. And that's when I realize that boredom really has struck, when I've started contemplating the selection of cakes at the counter, hence contemplating suicide through poisoned pastries. 

"My treat," Lana adds, tantalizingly.

It really is about time that Lana learns that that tone of voice is not going to work on anybody of the same sex as hers, but she has treaded on one of my principles, being: Never turn down free food. 

"Oh, alright," I say grudgingly, and follow her to the counter to make my choice. 

Lana speaks to me over her shoulder during the short journey, saying coffee shop things like: "Not a lot of customers today" and "Business has been slow going to be honest" and "The muffins were baked just last night" i.e. things that I'm not wholly interested in.

However, as we pass Lex Luthor's table on our journey to Muffin Land, I hear him saying something that I am absolutely interested in. His head bent low with the other man, I hear him say, unmistakably: "….. it's all through meteorite-induced theories, although I must say odd things do pop up in this town…"

"Who's that guy?" I ask Lana, nodding my head in the direction of the man sitting with Lex Luthor.

Lana glances at them. "I have no idea, I haven't seen him here before. Business partner, maybe. Blueberry or chocolate chip?"

I take another discreet glance over my shoulder at the man sitting with him. He looks remarkably young to be a business partner. But then again, Lex Luthor is hardly hitting forty himself, although you can't help but assume that he's much older than everyone if only because of the many selections of Armani he usually has on. Plus that whole bald thing he's got going isn't something you find amongst normal twenty-something men.

But young or no young, you couldn't exactly look at a man sitting with Lex Luthor, in jeans and a black sweater and sneakers, and assume that that's a business partner. But then again, aside from Clark, it's not like the man has any friends. That I know of anyway. Not that I know much. Not that _anyone_ knows much about the elusive Lex Luthor, actually.

I was just thinking about one other very interesting attribute about the man in question when Lana voices it out for me, mid-muffin selection: "He's pretty cute."

Of course Lana would think he was cute, we have the same tastes after all, and it's no wonder that we would find a long-legged man with black wavy hair undeniably attractive. Look at the only other common denominator in our lives.

With that in mind, and the all too clear reminder that there's no way for any warm-blooded female to get any cute guy in this town when there's a force like Lana Lang behind the counter, I have dismissed the idea of him before I even started.

"What's the selection of freebie cakes today?" I ask instead.

After my selection of muffin, and another cup of coffee (Lana insists, she seems to believe that the way to cheer me up is through free caffeine; to her credit that assumption isn't too far from the truth), I make my way back to my table (where blank papers awaited me with impatience). I'm suffering a sort of bleariness that could only be a result from having no inspiration of any sort (I guess I could write about that Car Wash for Charity the cheerleaders are scheming up, but why deny Pete of the pleasure?).

Life, I realize with a sigh, could not get any worse. Free coffee, sure, but Lana made coffee is not something you'd pay for in the first place.

Then of course, because Life is so nice to Chloe Sullivan, Life figured that just because she can't come up with any interesting story for The Torch doesn't mean we can't kick her while she's down! Hence, there the puddle of coffee came from nowhere, and there came my foot into it, and there came my face falling downwards towards what looked like a very uncomfortable floor, and there Lex and Cute Guy sat, with front row seats, just two feet away from this whole debacle.

After an ominous silence that probably lasted about two seconds after I fell but feels more like two eternities, Lex says, "Huh."

Figures. Bald bastard.

But his company proves to be more enterprising. I look up and find him kneeling over me, a concerned look on his face, with his hand stretched out. He asks if I'm okay, I think, because suddenly my head is fuzzy. Could it be the nearness of him? I grope blindly and find his hand, and feel two hands gripping my arms and helping me up, of whom I can only assume is Lana. I think she asks if I'm okay too, but I'm feeling even more light-headed than ever. I stand up and he's a lot taller than me, and he's looking even better close up. But he's not looking at me. He's looking somewhere else.

At this point in time, I'm feeling weak in the knees. Literally. I almost fall down again but he grabs me.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I smell nice aftershave cologne.

Somewhere to my left Lana gasps.

Somewhere in front of me Lex has grabbed hold of my hand and is saying, "Chloe! Chloe, are you okay?"

Funny how warm Lex's hand feels in mine. I don't know why, but I always assumed that he'd be cold. Okay maybe I do know why. When he puts an arm around my waist, I feel even warmer than ever, but I'm also wondering why they're making such a big deal out of the whole thing. I mean, God, I only fell down! Spare me some embarrassment and focus _away_ from me please.

There's something else about Lex's hand. It's very…. gooey.

Then I look down.

And I realize I wasn't the only one that fell. My muffin did too, and the plate, because I see murderous looking shards of white porcelain all over the place, and some dust of that on my jeans.

And my hand is bleeding… a lot. Kind of getting now why I'm feeling a bit fuzzy.

A more sane part of my mind is saying, "Oh look! Finally a story."

Then I faint.

LEX

Chaos.

Everyone seems to be running around in it. There's something about chaos; no matter how much people seem to run away from it, they seem to love it too. Maybe it's the dramatic side of us. Or maybe it's just a matter of geography – you have to get hyped up over _anything_ in Smallville if you're ever going to be sane. Even if it only comes from the cut hand of a reporter.

Luckily, I'm an old hand at chaos. You would have to be, when you're just a bald outsider who is forced to come to grips with the chaos running around you in a plant, where everyone is at least ten years older than you and they know it, you sort of learn how to cope.

Mike's another species of man altogether. My roommate for a majority of the torturous years spent in University, he doesn't like to deal with chaos. He likes to be in the center of it. And if it's the cause of a damsel in distress? 

I remember all too clearly his famous pick-up line: "Hi, I'm Mike." 

Flirty teenaged girl who can't chew and walk at the same time: "Mike what?"

"Mike nothing. Just Mike." And then that slow upturn of a smile, that straightening of the Versace leather jacket, and before you knew it, Just Mike justified himself with a girl who's just an idiot.

Mke isn't my favorite person, but at the same time, he's a rare friend. And believe me, there's not a lot of that going around in the life of Lex Luthor (that is, with the exception of Clark). Mike and I take each other in short bursts, because as much as he annoys me, I know that I annoy him just as much. This is mostly due to the fact that we know each other well enough, (which is too well) and being annoyed with him is just a matter of me accepting his faults and not bothering to deal with it.

There's a solid basis of friendship, if ever I heard one. Except that we can only take each other in small doses.

And so Mike came knocking on my door yesterday and announced his plan to stay a week. Doubtlessly hotel accommodation in Smallville is not up to par with Mike's normal Business Suite standards and he decides, without conferring to me, that he will stay at the Luthor Residence until his week is up. Two steps in the front door and already he has managed to vex me.

So, I'm guessing that the reason why Mike has taken up criminal law is because it's a decent job that would allow him to go into as much dramatics as he possibly can. Which is why, after he completes his Bar exam, I would never hire him to be my lawyer. Being a lawyer is bad enough, without being a lawyer who revels in your despair.

Digressing from the original topic, as for the damsel in distress, irony would have it that we were talking of her two seconds before she fell unceremoniously on her face. You might also find it ironic that she would be the cause of the chaos when she's usually the one trying to sneak her way into the center of it. 

Mike was asking me what form of entertainment is available at Smallville. I told him, besides the once a month freak shows, very sadly there is no other form of entertainment to be seen at Smallville, and if having fun was on his agenda, then it was best that he traipse along back to Metropolis. Which would be to his benefit, and to mine, because I hate unplanned visits. Look at how I deal with my father.

However, I was willing to point out a variety of freaks who would be more than willing to find someone to kill/mate/eat, which would surely provide him with some form of entertainment.

Mike, in all his usual drama, was a bit subdued at the news. Actually, he's been a bit subdued since he arrived yesterday. It could be the weather. Hell, it could be Smallville. You just have to sit within the town limits for a minute before you find yourself sinking into a depression. A town slump depression. Yet Smallville can be pretty eventful, but the past month, with the rain, the whole town has gone depressed. Even the mutated freaks can't get worked up.

I thought he wasn't paying attention to me, watching the retreating backs of Lana and Chloe as they passed our table, a thoughtful expression on his face.

But he shrugged and said, "Just as well. I feel like some peace and quiet."

I had to pause when he said that. That didn't sound like Mike at all.

"Peace and quiet?" I echoed, disbelievingly.

He nodded. "Things are kind of shitty at home. Would feel better to just stay away from the general Metropolis area. Take a break. Hey, I deserve it. I've been studying my ass off." He looked away from me, and I had to wonder if it wasn't Mike here that had turned into a freak show. Weirder things have happened in Smallville. 

A moment later, I realized the source of his thoughtfulness, when I looked at the objects of his gaze: Lana and Chloe picking muffins at the counter.

"Who's she?" he asked.

"She's a sixteen year old girl," I replied.

He grinned. "Sixteen? Jeez, they get younger and younger. Or is it that we're getting older?"

"Your brain hasn't. It doesn't matter, anyway, not with _that_ girl. Get in line, Mike."

That drew his attention away. "What? Don't tell me the great Lex Luthor is actually waiting in line with some common folk of Smallville for a piece of ass? Surely you jest."

I smirked. "She's a little too sixteen for me," I told him. And pointed out another obvious fact: "And I wasn't talking about me. My good friend Clark Kent has had his eye on her for years."

"Because some guy is too dumb to make a move already? Think not. That doesn't make her his property."

"She is in my book," I said shortly.

He glanced at me, then shrugged again. That tone of voice never worked on Mike for too long. You would have to have a longer attention span and more imagination to give that tone of voice more respect. "Okay, at least tell me her name."

I weighed the odds and found them in my favor. Even if Mike dared act up on it, I could just kill him. "Lana Lang. The blonde's Chloe Sullivan."

Mike stared at me like my head was suddenly sprouting hair. "I was _talking_ about the blonde."

I stared back at him.

"Oh," I said, realization dawning. "You were talking about Chloe? The blonde?"

"Yeah."

"Huh," I said, thrown back despite myself. I don't even know why I assumed that it was Lana he was talking about, he could have just as well have been talking about Chloe. I mean, Chloe's pretty too. Not as obviously so as Lana, but the idea is there. After all the months of Clark's fixation on Lana, I've started to think that everyone else would feel the same way about her. Like she's the epitome of all men's fantasies. 

It's not that I don't find Chloe attractive, it's just… an assumption. A standard, stupid male assumption. Thank God Chloe won't know about this. She'd have a complex for years, and Clark would be blaming me for it.

And another thing, why was I reacting so strangely to the fact that it was Chloe? A number of possibilities immediately arose in my head, quick justification to a question I couldn't quite answer (it's guilt, let's face it – I feel guilty of the fact that I naturally assumed it was Lana. It would mean that I was in the same category with Clark in terms of blindness). Perhaps it was because I liked her father. Perhaps I just didn't want to see Chloe's youth trampled on. Anyway, it hardly makes a difference. I stared at him, found myself staring at him, stopped myself from staring at him and threw a coat of nonchalance over it.

"Well, she's private property too," I said.

"What, are _all_ the girls private property? Or is she the property of that ignorant friend of yours too?

Funny, I always did wonder about that. That ignorant friend of mine should make his mind up. "No, but…"

"Well there you go."

Having used up the Clark excuse already, I decided to point out the top most obvious reason why he shouldn't be going after her. "She's only sixteen."

"Old enough to drive, old enough to make her own choice."

"And she wouldn't give you the time of day."

I know that I have successfully drawn his attention from Chloe by trampling on his ego, you could tell by how defensive he gets. "What makes you so sure?" he demanded.

I shrugged. "Because I know Chloe. She's too smart, too sharp, too incapable of bullshit."

"What is she, plastic?"

"Maybe she's too woman for you," I said, hoping that would finish it, before Chloe fell on her face that second to disprove that theory.

Back to the present. Chaos. Chaos usually comes hand in hand with blood, which is everywhere. Lana's screaming for towels. Mike's got Chloe's hand in a viselike grip to stop the bleeding and yelling at everyone to shut up. I've got Chloe's head on my knee, trying to figure out a way to wake her up, and assessing the cut.

Blood drips on my suit. My new suit. 

Which is just fucking great. This girl has me defending her and protecting her virtue, and now she's costing me too.

I slap her gently (ish) across the face.

Chloe comes to, unlike any person I've ever seen before. There's an immediate reaction. All engines on, all four cylinders turning, her eyes fly open wide, showing a startling blueness, and she looks down at her hand. 

"Oh for God's sake!" she says angrily and glared at her hand as if it was a separate being that dared bleed on her.

I'm only too obliged to add a little rain on her parade. "Chloe, you need stitches. We have to take you to a hospital."

She looks up, only just registering me, and she stares in a disoriented gaze, as if trying to ascertain who it is that's speaking to her. As if there were millions of bald men in her life.

Somewhere above me, Lana says, "Lex, can you possibly allow me to take her? Her car's parked just around the corner…"

I seriously consider it. It would leave my afternoon free, after all. But then, in all the drama of the situation, I forget who it is that is in my company, and who would certainly love the idea of whisking a girl off to a hospital.

"Don't worry, we'll take her," Just Mike says and grins at me.

Chloe passes out again.


	2. The Idea

Thank you for all the reviews! :)

DISCLAIMER: Smallville and all the characters are not mine (not even Lex, unfortunately). Although Mike is only a figment of my fluff crazed imagination, he's all mine.

* * * * *

CHLOE

Lana has been nothing but sweet to me since the debacle that I'm aching to forget. Actually she's been sweeter than is her measured norm, almost syrupy in fact. I'm pretty sure this is because she feels partly responsible for my injury, which, seeing the evidence that she was in charge of the Talon at that time, is partly true.

So since my little trip to the hospital yesterday where I received two stitches (yes, after all that, it amounted to nothing but two stitches) painfully administered to my hand, then being drugged up for the most of the night before, Lana has been the bestest friend a chick could have.

Despite the fact that _this_ chick is thinking of suing the patronage she partly owns.

That's right. I, Chloe Sullivan, tiny little woman with two stitches in her left hand, is going to sue the corporate giants and in particular, the owner, of the scene of my embarrassing calamity for what I hope to be an alarmingly huge amount of money.

Yes, I know what kind of light that puts me in at the moment. Forsaking my friendship just for a bit of news. But in all consideration, seeing that it's her fault to begin with, I really don't think she could put up that much of a fight.

Besides, I'm not really suing. I'm not that stupid. Although there is a possibility that I _could_ win some cash in this event, there is also a possibility that the motley crew of demon spawn otherwise known as Lex Luthor's lawyers will sweep down on me with all sorts of facts and details of how accident-prone I am and that's not something I want the whole world to know about.

So I'm just _pretending_ to sue. Or more to the point, I'm going to threaten to sue, on the condition that I'll be willing to shrug off the whole embarrassing ordeal in exchange for an interview with Lex Luthor. Because, at the end of the day and at the conclusion of whatever events, it's always just a story for the paper.

But this is not just an interview, my friends.

If I get my way (which I'm counting on – there are no tactic game plans here, just stubbornness), it will be a day-to-day diary in the life of Lex Luthor. For one week.

It would be the ultimate interview, and it would be _mine_.

Sometimes I can be so clever it startles me. But I'll have to thank the whole inspirational idea to the drugs prescribed to me, that enabled me to lie down staring at the ceiling blankly for three hours until finally an idea grew brighter in my mind.

The only flaw of this idea being that I would actually have to be with Lex Luthor on a day-to-day basis, and that doesn't sound like a roll in the hay. More like granite.

And just one another drawback as all Great Plans have: telling Lana.

So as she drives us to school the next morning, I figure there's no better moment than the present, with my accident fresh in her mind, the morning sun vainly trying to hold back the rain, and myself drugged up.

I was just about to broach the topic when she asked me something else.

"So what happened yesterday? When Lex took you to the hospital? I wanted to ask you last night, but you were too spaced out."

In truth, I'm just as spaced out now as I was last night, but drugs won't be stopping me from going to school today – not when I have to plan Lex Luthor's downfall at the Torch.

"I bled all over Lex's Jaguar," I reply, conversationally. She cringes. "You can't drive a bleeding victim to the hospital without expecting some damage to the interior of your vehicle. Anyway he got all the glory. Dad met us at the hospital, he must have called him on the way, I wasn't really sure what was going on. Anyway, you should have heard my Dad! He was thanking him non-stop, the amount of thank yous that came out of his mouth would have been sufficient enough to thank Lex for giving birth to me, for God's sake, not drive me to the emergency room. But still, he is Dad's boss." Then I stop. 

If Lana was unable to guess how drugged up I was prior to this conversation, then she's going to have a clue pretty soon.

She gives me a sideways glance. "You shouldn't even be going to school today."

I change that topic. I had enough of that from my Dad this morning.

"Anyway, that's about it. Don't really remember what happened in the car, which is a shame, because I don't think I'd be riding in a Jaguar again anytime soon."

"How was his friend?" she asks.

"He was pretty attentive, actually. Kept on talking to me, don't know about what mind you, just so I'd keep my eyes open. God, it was all so dramatic! What would they say if they knew I only needed two stitches?"

She smiles, a little shrewdly and a little knowingly. Not a normal Lana smile. I narrow my eyes at her. There's only one shrewd mysterious bitch in this duo and that's _me_.

I'm about to broach that topic when she says laughingly, "I doubt that Lex would care much if you had one stitch as long as you were okay, and it's not like you're going to sue!"

She actually believes that such an evil thought would never cross my mind. Evidently Lana knows less about me than I thought.

I sigh. Unfortunately, it's about time she learned. 

LEX

As is usual every day, by 9 a.m., I'm already in my car on my way to work. I'm a creature of habits, which is actually not a very complimentary thing to say about one's self. But then again, I'm hardly complimentary on the whole.

Digressing from the original topic. By 9 a.m., I'm on the way to work. As is usual, I'm exceeding the speed limit. As is usual, I'm getting away with it. By fifteen minutes past nine (it only takes about fifteen minutes to go anywhere in Smallville), I'm already parking my car. By twenty minutes past nine, my personal assistant will be reading out my schedule for the day and reminders for the week. By half past nine, Mr. Gabe Sullivan is by my side, ready to assist me in my daily circle around the plant. 

In every human there's a habit formed somewhere, whether they're aware of it or not. Despite the fact that I'm the type of person who doesn't necessary follow life through a straight pattern, I crave stability in other ways. But being a man of habit doesn't _not_ make me a spontaneous person, but at the same time, that isn't exactly complimentary either. Why would anyone want to acknowledge a recklessness of mind, a failure to think things through, an irregularity in behavior? A man is weak if he chooses to display that.

Or maybe I'm just covering up for my own boring life.

Anyway, there are a lot of equations that might form a habit. For example: my morning rituals. I'm in my car on my way to work at 9 a.m. on the dot every day because of one very good reason: my father goes down to the breakfast table at 9 a.m.

I exceed the speed limit time after time because that is something I do as naturally as breathing. If you were to tell me to drive slowly, I seriously wouldn't even know how to. Admittedly, this is a bad habit, but the only bad habit that has stuck with me from my teen hood. Which stemmed from driving fast away from Metropolis because the more distance I put between myself and my father, the more it made me breathe easier. 

As for the circle around the plant, a corporation will never be successful if you turn a blind eye towards its operations.

These are the normal equations. But there have been more recent additions to the reasons as to why I am such a creature of habit.

Escaping from Mike.

It's only been three days and already I've had to stop myself from telling my maid to pack up his things and throw them out. Not that Mike himself is annoying me as such. It's just that from the days of college to the days of now, a lot of things have changed. I have a ton of responsibility on my shoulders, and Mike is still living the life of a law student (which, in all fairness, he still is). Not that I can blame him for it, it just happens to be that right now we both have different ideas of where the line between 'fun' and 'reckless' is.

He still wants to go club hopping, I'd rather play pool.

Am I just getting too old too fast?

Sheila, my personal assistant (who at times tends to get too personal) is reading out my schedule.

"You have a meeting with Mr. Jones at 10 a.m., and then the launching of Fletcher Company at noon, then you have…"

I watch her in a slight daze, finding myself concentrating on a spot between her eyebrows. My God. I'm 21 for fuck's sake. Tell me there's something better than this – endless meetings and launches and luncheons and dinners and gala parties…

"What do I have planned for Saturday?" I cut in. She looks at me, surprised. I can't say I blame her. I've never interrupted her before. Hell, I've never paid attention to her before.

"Oh," she says, in a tone of voice different from the drone I'm accustomed to hearing from her. "Oh, well let me check… okay, you have a charity fund-raiser ball in Metropolis."

I find myself weighing the entertainment factor in a ball and one episode of Amazing Race and know it's no contest. Unfortunately, I wouldn't have a choice in the matter – LexCorp made a huge contribution to that fund-raiser and it would just be bad business manners if I don't show up. And I'd probably have to bring Mike too.

I sigh. Saturday looks bad already.

CHLOE

Lana is shell-shocked. Can't say I blame her.

"Are you out of your _mind_?" she cries, her voice hitting that dangerous high note that only ever comes out when she's really panicking.

I don't respond well to questions of which the answer I am unsure of.

"You couldn't get away with it," she continues, in that high pitched voice. "Chloe, don't you think that Lex would see right through you?"

"No," I reply, indignantly.

"For an _interview_, Chloe? Is it even _worth_ it?"

"An interview is worth about anything…" I start before she cuts me off again.

"And what if he turns you down? Are you going to sue him anyway? Correction, are you going to sue _us_ anyway?"

"He won't turn me down!" I assure her. "He won't! He'll see it as a challenge more than anything. He knows I won't rest until I get that interview and he'd probably see it as an easy out…"

"And what if he doesn't?" I don't reply. "You're going to sue us anyway."

"Lana, you really don't have to take it personally…"

"_How can I not take it personally_?!" Her voice is all kinds of high notes now, I cringe as they attack my ears. Okay, admittedly, that was my bad, wrong thing to say.

I switch from self-righteous to comforting: "Lex is not going to say no. I promise you that! And if he does, I won't sue. Believe me Lana, my Dad would kill me. I would _not_ take that risk." I think.

At the mention of my Dad, Lana relaxes. She's probably reasoning to herself right now, reassuring herself that yes, the Talon won't get sued because if there's even a hint of it to Mr. Gabe Sullivan, Miss Chloe Sullivan would be killed. Thank God for small favors.

But she still has her two cents to say, "Chloe, is this really _necessary_?"

I don't answer, and she doesn't press for one. She should know that question was moot.

Is it necessary for the paper? Maybe not, but it would help me out of a rut. But is it necessary for my peace of mind? Definitely.

LEX

I interrupted Gabe in the middle of a rather length summary about fertilizer treatments by asking him how his daughter was doing.

He looked startled, and I can't say I blame him. Usually I'm half-drifting off and half-paying attention to his words with an impolite freedom only reserved in directors of a company. I've never changed the topic before.

I repeat the question.

"She's fine," he replies, still surprised.

"Is she taking leave from school today?"

"Oh, no!" Gabe laughs, as if the idea is the most preposterous thing he has ever had the decency to hear. "No, Chloe doesn't take leave from school."

Hmm. Most teenagers I know would be screaming for an excuse to take leave from school. Obviously Chloe doesn't fall under the normal definition of 'teenagers'. "Shouldn't she be taking her rest?"

"You would think, Mr. Luthor. But Chloe doesn't like to stay home. And especially not for what she considers is _only_ two stitches!"

I stare at him, with some disturbance of mind. _Two stitches_? All that blood on my suit and my Jaguar and it only amounted to two lousy stitches? You'd think she'd have _ten_ with all that blood!

Gabe seems to notice my appalled silence and says, "Again, Mr. Luthor, I have to thank you for taking my daughter to the emergency room yesterday. It really was very kind of you."

I'd rather he hadn't said that, because now that queasy feeling in my stomach that I can only ascertain as guilt is starting up again. I feel my conscience, something I usually ignore, nagging away at me. If I had had my way, I wasn't going to bring her to that emergency room. And before that, I didn't even recognize her as the pretty woman that she is, rather just the friend of the pretty woman named Lana.

I could deal with guilt quite easily, after all there are a number of things in my life I should feel guilty about. It's nothing that a good blocking of the mind cannot solve. But there is no mental block in the world that could save you when the parent of the said person is looking at me so wide-eyed and earnestly, thinking that I'm the greatest of bosses for bringing his daughter to the emergency room, not thinking twice about leather interiors and Armani suits.

As Gabe continued his lengthy summary from where I interrupted him, I found myself drifting off totally from the subject and not paying him an ounce of attention. Guilt has grabbed my attention, completely and wholly, and I sorely regretted asking Gabe how his daughter was.

But as it is, I suppose there's no other way out of it but to get my conscience to ease up a little.

After the tour with Gabe I retreat back to my office and tell Sheila to order the biggest bouquet of lilies at the florist in town. And thinking it would be a nice personal touch, I would deliver the flowers myself.

But as I reach Smallville High and the office of the Torch to find one Chloe Sullivan glaring at me with a resolute look on her pretty face, I find myself wondering if I should have just lived with the guilt.


	3. The Deal

LEX

But first, she knocked a cup of coffee over her bandaged hand and said, "Damn you, Lex Luthor!"

Frankly, I fail to see what it is that I have to be damned about. It was her own clumsiness after all, I only just walked into the office with a large bouquet of lilies in one hand and spoke, "Good afternoon, Chloe." Before she spilled her coffee all over the place.

Which only helps ease the guilty conscience if only a little bit, at the fact that this girl is a natural walking disaster area and could have gotten stitches (albeit two) anywhere.

Lilies thrown aside on another desk, tissue paper scrambled from her pockets, her desk drawers, anywhere we could lay our hands on them, pressed against her now damp bandages, and when we finally assumed some stability, she glared at me.

"_What_?" I ask, annoyed.

She breathes deeply, obviously trying to gain some control over herself, and probably remembering that bitchiness is not the correct attitude to be fronted when meeting with your father's boss.

Especially after this father's boss drove her to the fucking emergency room only yesterday.

It is with some slowness and control when she finally says, "Mr. Luthor, I would appreciate it if you didn't shock the living daylights out of me the next time."

"That wasn't my intention," I reply, dryly. "I actually had another purpose as to why I came here, and it wasn't to drive you to the emergency room, again." Then I add, "And please call me Lex." And mentally, here's hoping there isn't a next time.

She gives me a look of which I can only assume is supreme dislike.

"Well, I'm sorry the welcoming committee got hot coffee all over her injured hand and is unable to greet you with the service of which you are accustomed to," she says, equally dryly.

I decide to ignore that, instead walk over to the discarded lilies and hand them to her. In my mind I had pictured this to be a more ceremonious moment.

"For me?" she says, surprised.

"For you," I confirm.

Seemingly at a loss for words (this might very well be the first time anyone has encountered such a thing), she takes the flowers and brings one petal to the tip of her nose. "Thanks," she says, uncertainly.

"You're welcome. I actually do hope that you're feeling better, Chloe." I look around at the mess of the office, the mess that is multiplied by the wads of coffee soaked tissues everywhere. I forebear comment, knowing that if I so much as hint at an insult I might not be walking out of here with my arms attached. "Of course, you must be better or you wouldn't be at school."

"I'm much better, thank you," she says, suddenly the epitome of awkward politeness. I stare at her for a little while, and wonder if I prefer this side of her or the more dynamically bitchy side that I've grown familiar with.

She notices me staring and looks down, blushing. I notice me staring and look away, slightly red.

"I trust the doctors treated you well," I say, and find myself disconcerted at the sudden formality of which I'm addressing her.

She nods. I wish she didn't. I'd rather she say something bitchy to lift this awkward silence away.

"So, anyway," I say, hoping to snap myself back to the normal world. "I hope you like the flowers. Take care, Chloe."

I'm already halfway out of the office and out of surreal hell when her voice stops me, "Wait, Lex."

I turn around and find her not looking at me, but her face has a look of hardened resolve about it, and her right fist is clenched.

I prepare myself for the worst.

"Talking about the injury…" she starts.

"We weren't talking about the injury," I cut in. "We left the topic some time ago, didn't we?"

I'm awarded with a glare. "Okay, if you're gonna get all technical about it, referring _back_ to my injury…" she trails off, probably waiting for me to interrupt, which I don't. I stand in front of her desk with my hands clasped behind my back like a student waiting for his principal to dish out the lecture. "Yes, anyway, the injury. You know I hate to be the one pointing this out, but I received that injury at the Talon."

For some reason, I had a feeling that this was coming. I just didn't think that she'd have the balls or the heart to actually follow through. Evidently, I know even less about teenage girls than I did when I was actually allowed to date them.

I wait patiently for her to continue.

"And it was due to a carelessness of a staff at the Talon…"

"Which, if I'm not mistaken," I cut in, "Your current housemate is a partner of."

"…which is also owned by you," she finishes.

I smile at her. Obviously she doesn't expect this, and it seems to fluster her.

"Continue," I say, businesslike.

She takes a deep breath, a sign of weakness. She knows that she has never dealt with this before and she probably guesses that I have, many times.

"I plan to sue the Talon for the injury," she says in one breath.

I smile again. She glares.

"I'm _serious_."

"I know you are," I assure her. "Have you spoken to an attorney already?"

"No," she replies, slightly baffled. "As I said, I'm _planning_ to sue. I haven't taken it into action yet."

"Have you got all the details figured out?" I ask. She glares again. She probably planned for me to be a bit more pissed off about the whole ordeal, not give her suggestions.

"I can prove that it's the negligence of the Talon that injured me…"

"Which is neither long-term nor does it seem to be affecting your schoolwork."

"..and it does have an insurance claim on it seeing that I did have to sit in an operating theater…"

"For two stitches."

"But they're _still stitches_, and they _still hurt_, don't they?"

"I don't know Chloe, you tell me."

She glares at me again, and I smile at her again.

"How much are you looking to claim for this two-stitch injury?"

"However much," she says, through gritted teeth.

"Well lets put some factors into account," I tell her airily, lifting up my five fingers and counting them down. "First, you're only sixteen and a student, so the injury wouldn't affect you as it would a sixty-year old janitor, hence compensation would be severed to an amount that does not equal the hassle of bringing someone to court. Second, you only had two stitches, which, seeing as you're in school already, doesn't seem to be affecting your schoolwork or your every day life to any large degree. Third, you'll have to prove that the injury was caused by the negligence of the Talon and not your own, which, seeing that you managed to pour hot coffee all by yourself just ten minutes ago, might be a little hard to prove. Fourth…"

"A lawyer might speak differently," she cuts in, calmly.

"Chloe, I'd give you free coffee at the Talon for a month for that injury, and not a cent more. And believe me, that's generous, seeing as you don't even have a leg to stand on."

She breathes again. "Lex, I don't want to threaten..."

"Funny, it sounded like it a minute ago."

"… but I'm going to have to remind you that I wouldn't be suing just about anyone, I would be suing _you_, and that's something any lawyer would love to get their hands on. Even for two stitches. And you wouldn't want the bad publicity, win or lose. The whole world would be on my side."

I look her in the eye, and wonder what the hell it is that she wants. Unfortunately, she's right; any lawyer would love the opportunity to get back at me, and I can't have the publicity. Usually this would be settled as an out-of-court matter, if I chose to do it the right way, and it's evident that Chloe is depending on this.

"Alright, Miss Sullivan. What do you want? Because I know you have something in mind."

And of all the money, cars and images that flew past my mind, what she says is: "I want an interview."

Oh for fuck's sake.

"Fine."

"Actually I want more than that."

"Shoot."

"I want to follow you around every day for a week. Actually, make that two weeks."

I laugh. I can't help it. Just the image of me trying to escape from my father and Mike seemed pathetic enough without injecting Chloe into the list.

"I'm not joking!" she says, irritably.

"Yes well, whether you intended it or not, this _is_ a joke, Chloe."

"I'm giving you an easy out here, Lex."

I study her for a moment, wondering how I would be able to break this to her gently without breaking her oversized confidence, and come to the conclusion that sometimes, you just have to be cruel to be kind. 

"I could give you an easy out too," I tell her, assuming business mode and looking her in the eye. "Here's one for a start: you don't sue me, and I'll let your father keep his job. How's that? No? There are many other scenarios I can give you, Chloe, if that be not sufficient enough for you."

For all her intelligence, Chloe has walked into this with her eyes closed. The despairing look that crosses her face is enough to make even me feel sorry for her, but it's her fault to begin with.

I mean, a day-to-day interview? Is she out of her fucking mind?

Then she purses her lips and I get the strangest feeling that she's about to give up, and yet another stranger feeling of not really wanting her to give up.

She sniffs, loudly.

And yes, if she cries, it will up my guilty conscience at about a million notches.

She looks down and rubs at her face.

"I see," she says, in a shaky voice, not looking up at my face. "I see. Well, Lex, I'm glad that you've managed to make things clear…" she trails off and covers her mouth with her hand, to my increasing horror.

I find myself weighing the odds.

Okay, day-to-day interview. It'll kill me, sure, but it'll also salvage her pride, which I have actually grown rather fond of, and it'll also lift my guilty conscience up totally. She wouldn't actually need to go to work with me, she would just need to spend about five hours a day with me, and that's not too bad. Unless you count the weekend. I can just negotiate it for a week instead of two. 

And, although I hate to say it, she will probably get Mike off my back. He would be delirious at the thought, I'm certain.

I know I'm going to regret it but, "Okay," I sigh. "Okay."

"Okay?" she says, hopefully.

"One week."

"One week," she echoes.

"Yes," I sigh heavily. "One week. Starting this afternoon. It'll end next Wednesday."

She nods and says quietly, "Okay."

"And you won't be following me around work. After office hours only."

She sighs. "I suppose I can't argue with that."

Damn straight she can't argue with that.

She sticks a shaky hand out to me. "Deal?"

I clasp it with my own, still hesitating before I actually close the distance. "Deal."

"Great!" she looks up and smiles at me, and it is with some ramification that I notice that her eyes are completely dry. "So I'll meet you later at around five? Where can we meet? The Talon? Or your place?"

Slightly confused at the sudden transition from unsure Chloe to bubbly Chloe, I reply uncertainly, "Sure. I mean, the Talon. We'll meet at the Talon."

"Great!" she says, in a tone that says that I'm dismissed. "See you then, Lex."

"Yes," I say, still unsure. "See you then."

I start to walk out of the office, and hear her humming a song vaguely recognizable to me as a tune that I wouldn't buy with good money. I turn back, once, for my peace of mind.

"You weren't crying just now, were you."

She looks surprised. "Why, no, Lex. What on earth made you suppose that?"

I should have known. Get past all of the guilt and the injury and the fact that she's a pretty blonde teenager, and you still come down to the essential core of her: she's a reporter, and I'm a fucking idiot to have forgotten that.

"I see we're going to get along famously, Miss Sullivan," I tell her wearily. "In fact, there may be no survivors."

"Well, let's keep our fingers crossed," she grins at me.

I leave the Torch and Smallville High with my head down, only allowing myself a bit of reflection when I'm back in the car with the blood-stained seats.

What is my conclusion of Chloe Sullivan?

Besides being a stubborn, annoying and manipulative blonde teenager?

Maybe I'm a little impressed.

I drive away, keeping in mind my newly added appointment at the Talon at five.


	4. The 5 o'clock Meeting

CHLOE

It's raining, again.

I know the weather should be the least of my problems, what with the beginning of the Lex Luthor diary looming over the horizon like an impending doom that will take place in about five minutes. But it's the very interview that's making me hate the rain. It's making my hair flip out weirdly.

And I really didn't want to start this interview looking like something the cat dragged in. For the sake of journalistic professionalism, you understand. No other reason at all.

To top it all off, I'm nervous. I would rather die than have Lex Luthor know this, but I am very, very nervous. When you're dealing with an enigma like Lex Luthor, and having to resort to other sly means to get an interview with him, means that he had no qualms in displaying his dislike over, one would have no choice but be nervous. Lex Luthor is as mysterious as all can get, and when you're a mystery, you're unpredictable. I might know what I have in store for him, but I have no idea what he has in store for me.

Something tells me that the week won't end up looking too pretty. In fact, as he so aptly put it, there may be no survivors.

I'm jumped out of this reverie by the sudden appearance of perfect white teeth.

"Hey, Chloe," Clark greets, sliding into the seat opposite mine. "Not disturbing you, am I?"

"Hey," I greet back, as usual ignoring that little excited thump in my heart reserved only for him. Hearts can be traitorous little organs. "No, but you have to go away in about five minutes."

"Have a hot date?" he grins.

I feel familiar bubbles of resentment surfacing. If he had a hot date, I wouldn't be grinning. I'd be consoling myself with ice-cream and Meg Ryan movies. "Nope, even better."

"I'll bite," he says. "What's even better than a hot date?"

"A hot interview with Lex Luthor," I reply, promptly.

"You're joking. Lex actually agreed to an interview?"

"More like a day-to-day diary in the life of Lex Luthor, that _I'll_ be writing." The familiar broken heart feeling is quickly replaced with smugness. If I could get a piece on Lionel Luthor, I'd be absolutely set.

Clark looks less impressed and more shell-shocked.

"Oh go on, be impressed."

"Well, I _am_ impressed," he says quickly. "How on earth did you manage that?"

Emotional blackmail. "Oh, some wheedling helped." I didn't want him to ruin my thunder by chastising me for the actions that procured that thunder. Besides, he'll find out from Lana soon enough.

Lana was actually very happy for me. Well, of course she'd be happy about anything if it stopped the Talon from being sued.

"Wheedling, huh?" Clark smiles.

I feel my ego being inflated to ten times the size of normal i.e. not very healthy. "Yes well, other than that, it was all professional journalism, you know."

"Professional journalism?" I heard echo in disbelief, very unfortunately not from Clark's mouth but from a spot somewhere to the right of me. I dare a peek. Lex Luthor stands there looking down at me with something that looks like distrust.

So no, scrap that. My hair flipping is not a bad way to start an interview. _This_ is.

"Lex," I say weakly. "You're early."

He ignores me and looks at Clark instead. "Hey Clark."

"Hey Lex," he replies with a smile. "I was just about to leave. Don't want to interrupt the interview," he says, standing up.

"No, don't do that, Clark. You can stay," Lex says. I think I detect a pleading note in his voice.

He laughs. "No, I wouldn't want to be around when Chloe gets into reporter mode!" Clark is not helping me one bit. He stops suddenly and says, "Oh, hello."

I look at where he's looking at and find the other man whose lap I occupied yesterday standing behind Lex, two hands in his jeans pockets, his casual jeans and t-shirt look in striking contrast to Lex's casual look (which is never that casual).

Lex seems to remember him too. "Oh, sorry. Mike, this is Clark, remember I told you about him? Clark, Mike, an old college friend of mine."

As Clark and Mike shake hands, I can't help but feel resentful at the fact that Lex was not volunteering to introduce me. But then again, I don't think I'm the highest on Lex's Favorite People list at the present moment, or for any future moments for that matter.

Clark leaves, Mike and Lex settle in opposite me. I remember Lex introducing Mike as his old college buddy with some surprise. Frankly I was having doubts that Lex had any old friends at all – it's hard enough to retain a friendship without you being a heartless cow. Clark might be an exception, but then again he's the most patient and lenient guy I know, and I seriously doubt that there would be more of men like him in the world.

After ordering, we sit in silence. I'm still waiting for the obligatory introduction of Mike to me and me to Mike but it's not happening. Lex sits in resolute silence, and Mike seems contented with watching his fingernails grow.

Deciding to take matters into my own hands, and already losing half the steam I gathered for the Professional Journalist idea, I turn to Mike.

"Hi," I award Mike with a big-as-the-world-no-make-that-Jupiter smile, one that Lex Luthor would never be so fortunate enough to have directed at him. "I'm Chloe Sullivan."

"Mike," he grins at me, and I'm slightly knocked out by that grin. It didn't have the Clark Kent dazzling factor, but it was one helluva nice grin.

"Nice to meet you," I say, and for the interest of the interview, I add, "I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your last name. Mike what was that?"

"Mike nothing. Just Mike," he says, and grins again.

I stare at him.

"Just Mike?" I echo. "Seriously."

For some reason, Lex looks absurdly pleased.

"Riley. Mike Riley," he says, his tone still amiable, but he shoots a look at Lex, who smirks.

I mean, seriously. _Just Mike_? What is this, a teeny bopper movie?

"So anyway," I say, hoping to forget all of the awkward intros and go straight to the heart of the matter. "I thought we'd discuss how we're going to go about everything before we actually start."

Lex shrugs. "Shoot."

I pause and glance at Mike. For some reason I had imagined this to be just the two of us, at least for the actual discussion factor.

Lex seems to notice. "Mike is staying in Smallville with me for a week. He'll be around for a large part of the interview, diary, thing."

"Huh," I say, a bit bitter at the fact that he's addressing my masterpiece as a 'thing'. "Okay, fine."

"Not a problem, is it?" Mike asks.

"No, not at all. It's supposed to be a diary type _thing_ so Lex is supposed to go about his every day activities, and I guess that includes you." But what bad timing. I wanted it to be all about Lex Luthor, without any shadow (albeit a cute one) following us around. "Which I'm sure suits you fine," I add to Lex, with just a tiny hint of sarcasm.

"I'm sure," he says, and smirks.

I try not to scowl and fail miserably. "_Anyway_, so the general thing would be that I follow you around. I'll be asking you questions along the way, but mostly I'll try to hide in the background. So I'd just be asking you to ignore me on the most part."

He gives me a look that says that ignoring me would be a hard thing to do.

"I'd probably be asking some of the people that you're with about you, their opinions of you and that sort of thing, and I'd be sitting in for any meetings that you might have during our time together…"

"No," he interrupts.

"_No_?"

"No," he says firmly. "No business meetings."

I breathe in deeply – a calming mantra that never worked on me before but I'm hoping for miracles now. "Lex, we made a deal…"

"This was not part of the deal. No business meetings."

"I won't be divulging anything that you actually say during the meetings…"

"Chloe," he cuts in, bluntly, "It's not that I don't trust you. It's just that I don't trust _any_ reporter."

Which obviously puts me in my place. "Fine. No business meetings."

Instead of looking relieved, Lex looks surprised. Probably didn't count on me giving up the issue so quickly. Fact of the matter is I didn't think he'd allow me anyway, and it's a worthless cause to be fighting over when I can just try and sneak into the meetings. "Thank you."

"I'm sorry," Mike suddenly says. "Which newspaper is this for, anyway?"

"The Torch," I reply, promptly, with just a teeny little bit of pride. "Smallville High school paper."

"Very ambitious for a school paper," Mike says, with the look of someone who is impressed. My kind of look.

"We try," I say, with a failed attempt at modesty. I beam at him, as he smiles at me, and out of the corner of my eye Lex rolls his eyes heavenward. Which doesn't matter, because at the moment I'm thinking of other things. Namely, how this Mike character has got the charming smile factor down pat.

"I should definitely read it some day," he says. I swear I detect a flirtatious note to his voice, but being the big lump of insecure mess that I usually am all in result of being second-best to Lana for far too long, I decide that it's just my imagination.

Anyway, I'm not very good at flirting. I decide to discard the whole idea of that altogether and turn back to Lex. "Anyway! Where were we?" 

Lex gives me a disgruntled look. "No business meetings."

"Right, business meetings, none of that," I glance at Mike who's still smiling at me and I look away, annoyingly flustered. "Yes and um- what was it? Right! No business meetings. So um, yeah. That's that. And uh- so I suppose you get the general gist of everything, right Lex?" He nods wearily. "So we'll just begin now, shall we?"

"As you please," Lex drawls. Then says, "Excuse me," and gets up and leaves before I could actually _begin_.

I don't know where he goes, restroom, Lana and Clark, whatever. It hardly matters, considering the whole idea of my professional journalism has gone awry the moment he decided not to introduce me to Mike. With that in mind, I turn to Mike. "I guess I'll start with you."

"By all means," he says, just as the waitress arrives and puts a cup of coffee in front of him, and another cup of coffee and a steak sandwich in front of the empty space that _should_ have been occupied by Lex.

"So how long have you known Lex?" I ask, when the waitress leaves, making eye contact with him as a professional journalist does, and looking away when I realize that his smile is just making me more nervous.

"We were room mates in college," he says. 

"You must be good friends." He nods, and says nothing else. "So what are you doing in Smallville?"

"Just visiting," he says. "Felt like getting away from Metropolis, so I thought I'd spend the week with Lex. See how he's doing. And all that."

I feel like I should be sticking to the Mike criteria of the interview so I could just not ask him again for the rest of the week, but another burning curiosity is getting the better of me. I lean forward eagerly, "So how was Lex in college?"

"Ambitious," Mike replies promptly. "But that's Lex."

"Ambitious? So he was studious?"

"Not particularly," Mike says. "I don't think that Lex believed that there was anything you could learn from school that you couldn't learn in the real world."

That isn't surprising. For one thing, Lex doesn't need to study to get a good job, he'd get the CEO position for LuthorCorp just as soon as his father retires (if he ever does), as easily as that (I think). And I somehow doubt that the proper business etiquette and rules as studied in University would actually apply at that corporation.

"Was he friendly or more of an outsider?"

"Well, lets put it this way," Mike says. "If he wasn't my room mate, I wouldn't even have spoken to him. He has his acquaintances, and that's that. He's a Luthor, he wouldn't need to try and make friends. Ass kissers come running a mile away."

"So do you think that Lex…"

"How's your hand?" Mike asks, cutting me off in mid-sentence. I'm beginning to see a likeness between the two already.

"It's fine, thanks. Oh, and thank you for taking me. I mean, I know it was Lex, but you were there, and… er, thanks."

He smiles warmly at me, and I smile back, hoping to look the cool and calm and collected female, but knowing that I'm blushing and looking constipated instead.

For the first time ever, I'm very thankful for the sudden re-appearance of Lex.

"Miss me?" he says, dryly.

"Well, you weren't gone long enough for that," Mike says, somewhat pointedly.

"I was just asking Mike some stuff about you," I tell him.

Lex glances at Mike before looking back down at his coffee. "Interesting," he says, tonelessly. He looks back at me, "So what happens now?"

"Well, nothing really," I tell him. "Just go about doing whatever. I'll ask questions when I need to. We can just act like it's not an interview, and just three people having coffee. Just continue like we're having a normal conversation."

"Just three people having a drink," Lex echoes. "And the lady gets to go home with me. I'm enjoying this already," he remarks, taking a bite of his sandwich.

The man is purposefully making this hard for me.

"We'll be here for a while," Lex says. "Then we'll go home. I actually don't have anything planned. How about you, Mike?"

"Hey man, I'm just following you around," Mike says, amiably.

It seems to be with some impatience that Lex says, "Okay."

"So, what do you usually do at home?" I ask.

Lex shrugs. "There's not too much going on in the Luthor household."

"Really?" I ask, disappointed in spite of myself. I had this idea that he had a secret basement somewhere where he feeds meteorite pebbles to unsuspecting rats. Of course, that's just my imagination getting ahead of me.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Lex says wryly.

At the back of my mind I'm aware that Lex is probably putting on this whole 'I'm boring' attitude just to piss me off, where as at the front of my mind I'm pretty sure that he's just trying to hide something else. But then again, I'm a reporter. I live for the controversies.

I decide to touch on a more sensitive topic. "So how's living with your Dad?"

Instead of answering, Lex takes a huge bite of his sandwich.

"It must be nice to get back with your father, be close again, spend some time together," I continue, dismissing the fact that he just ignored the first question.

Mike coughs.

Lex says, "Some men are easy to get along with, some you'd rather kill."

I stare at him. Although I'm well aware that Lionel Luthor may be on the top of everyone else's Murder List, I didn't think I'm expect it from his own son. Hate? Yes. Detest? Yes. Resent? Yes. But the way Lex puts it, it's as if he'd rather not acknowledge the fact that he has a father, who has turned blind and has taken up residence in his house.

"Well, he's your father, Lex," I tell him. "There has to be some similarity there somewhere."

"The only difference between me and a madman is that I'm not mad." 

The quote is instantly recognizable to me. "Salvador Dali," I reply. "His father was probably mad too." 

Lex smiles at me just a little, but it uplifts me to no end. As if I just received the stamp of approval after a very long and hard obstacle course.

"Indeed," he says, nodding. And then as if to confirm that stamp of approval, he leans forward and asks, "So, Miss Sullivan, is there anything else you'd like to know about my domestic life?"

"Oh, plenty," I reply with a grin. "But we've got all week."


End file.
